a little of your time (to say the words i never said)
by shineyma
Summary: Responses to the time-stamp meme I held on my tumblr. [Contains time-stamps for run as fast as you can (and we'll make it out alive), you've already got me (under your spell), and chapters 4, 6, 8, 25, 34, 39, and 61 of a prompt response (is only polite).]
1. Jemma's parents are HYDRA AU: six months

A/N: safelycapricious asked: "Jemma's parents are HYDRA 6 months later. (two!)"

The Jemma's parents are HYDRA drabble is chapter **34** of _a prompt response (is only polite)_. There is also a continuation, which is chapter **48**. You may wish to read thsoe first.

* * *

Jemma is halfway through transcribing her notes from the morning's autopsy (of a civilian who was unfortunate enough to stumble across some form of alien virus) when she becomes aware that the lab is oddly silent beyond the sound of her own voice. She hits pause on the recording, tugs her earbuds out, and swivels on her stool to face the rest of the room.

The reason for the silence is immediately apparent: the others have all cleared out, leaving her almost alone in the lab. It's a welcome action—because the only person she's happy to share lab space with is Fitz, and he's been out sick for a week, his absence rendering the rest of their colleagues intolerable—but not nearly as welcome as the _reason_ for it.

Grant, leaning attractively back against the workstation directly behind hers with his arms crossed, grins.

"You know," he says, mock serious. "You really should pay more attention to your surroundings. If I was an assassin I could've killed you twenty minutes ago."

"You _are_ an assassin," she points out, sliding off her stool.

"Among other things," he agrees. He watches with heat in his eyes as she shrugs off her lab coat and carefully drapes it over the back of her stool. "So, fair enough. If I were a _different_ assassin I could've killed you twenty minutes ago."

"No, you couldn't," she says. She lets her hair down from its ponytail and shakes it out a bit, watching his face. He gives her a slow grin but remains where he is, waiting for her to come to him.

Usually she'd play along, stretch it out for a while and wait to see who would break first, but she hasn't seen him since his shoulder finished healing and he returned to the specialist rotation—nearly four months ago, now.

So she stops the game there and closes the distance between them. It's not far—only six steps and she's sinking into his arms. She closes her eyes for a moment, enjoying the warmth his touch always causes in her—warmth and a touch of that effervescent happiness, still, even now that she's moved past her girlish crush on him and straight into a real relationship.

"No?" he asks. "And why's that?"

It takes her a moment to remember what they were talking about; when she does, she opens her eyes and leans back to smirk at him.

"Because if you were another assassin," she says, and pauses to go up on her toes and kiss his jaw, "You wouldn't dare to touch me."

He considers this for a moment, then moves, grabbing her around the waist and lifting her even as he turns. He sets her on the workstation, putting them at eye level, and rests his hands on her knees. She holds her breath as he leans in close, but he doesn't kiss her.

"Well, then," he murmurs instead, his lips scant millimeters from hers. "I guess it's a good thing I'm not a different assassin."

"I guess it is," she whispers. Then, tired of waiting, she grips his shirt by the collar, tugs him forward, and finally—_finally_—kisses him.

(It's hours before they leave the lab. None of Jemma's colleagues make eye contact the next day.)


	2. run as fast as you can: three months

A/N: safelycapricious asked: "run as fast as you can three months later (three!)"

You may wish to read _run as fast as you can (and we'll make it out alive)_ first.

* * *

Jemma knows as soon as she opens her eyes that it's going to be a bad day.

The clock on the bedside table clearly displays 8:34. It's a Wednesday, which means her alarm should have gone off at seven, as she needed to be in the med-lab to open the weekly clinic at eight.

Before—well, before—she would have chalked it up to sleeping through the alarm, done a bit of swearing, and then hurried to get ready while simultaneously attempting to contact someone in order to apologize for oversleeping and assure them that she would be there as soon as possible.

But that was before.

Now, her head is resting on a firm thigh instead of a pillow, and there's a hand carding through her hair, and she knows she didn't oversleep.

"You turned off my alarm," she says quietly. She's careful not to make it an accusation—just a statement of fact.

Grant sighs. "Yeah."

She rolls onto her back so she can meet his eyes, careful to keep her head propped against his thigh as she does. He looks just as put together—or rather, roguishly handsome—as usual, but she can read the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes—the grief in the set of his jaw.

"You had the dream again?"

He nods once, sharply, and she lifts her hand to draw his out of her hair, lacing their fingers and squeezing tightly.

"I'm right here," she swears, and he closes his eyes at the way her voice wavers. "I'm not dead, Grant."

"I know," he says. "I know." But his grip on her hand is painful, and _his_ voice wavers, too.

Life in the Cellar isn't as difficult as life in the world outside, but that doesn't make it _easy_. Jemma and Grant spent two years thinking each other dead, and it will take longer than three months to erase the effects of that.

Jemma's fears generally manifest themselves when she is awake. There are times when she drifts towards corners, expecting attack from the strangers around her—times when she's certain that every friendly smile is just a cover for a weapon, when the only way to relax is to surround herself with the very few people in the base she knew _before_ the world ended. Other times, she will be seized by the sudden certainty that she's stuck in some sort of delusion, and will have to track Grant down and cry on him for a while before she can function again.

It's painful and horrible and nothing she can help—but she thinks her mind is kinder to her than Grant's is to him.

Grant's fears manifest themselves at night, in horrible dreams. It's not every night—not even most nights—but when he has nightmares, they hit him hard. She doesn't know the exact content of his dreams, as he's incredibly reluctant to speak of them, but she knows they involve him losing her again. And she knows they leave him shaken.

This isn't the first time he's done this—turned off her alarm to keep her here, tucked away with him in their room where no one can hurt her or take her away from him. It might make her angry if not for how horrible he looks, how obvious it is that he hasn't left either. Most mornings, he's up at five to get in a work-out before he has to get to work dealing with the day-to-day tedium of running the base, but she'd lay money (if money still meant anything) that he hasn't moved since he woke from whatever awful dream shook him so.

It might make her angry if it didn't make her so very sad.

"I'm supposed to run the clinic today," she reminds him gently.

He lifts their clasped hands to his mouth to kiss the back of hers. It feels like an apology—like supplication—and her heart twists.

Grant has spent nearly two years holding an entire base of survivors on his shoulders, and all but the last three months were spent without her. She wonders what he did on the days after nightmares before their reunion—when he woke from dreams of losing her to a reality where she was (he thought) already dead, did he take the day off? Did he hide in this room that he had never—that he thought he _would_ never—shared with her?

Or did he just brush it off and keep going, as he does every other wound he receives?

"Gregson's on it," he says, drawing her out of her musings.

She frowns. "Gregson hates me. That won't help."

"Hates you?" he asks, matching her frown. "Why?"

His tone—so incredulous, as though it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard—makes her smile despite herself. So many things have changed, but this isn't one of them: Grant is the most observant man she has ever met, except when it comes to her. He's blinded by his love for her, and it warms her even as she worries for him.

"We were at the Academy together," she says, resettling herself. Her neck is starting to ache, but some of the lines around Grant's eyes are beginning to ease, so she can tolerate it. "In our second week, we were set against each other for a debate in our Xenobiology course. I'm afraid I rather decimated him."

Grant grins. "Of course you did."

She smiles back, because it is—admittedly—a very satisfying memory. Gregson was _incredibly_ arrogant before their debate. Being utterly humiliated by a first-year cadet in their second week did plenty for his humility; as far as she's concerned, she performed a public service.

"Well, regardless, we've been getting along a little better since…everything," she says, tactfully avoiding the word _apocalypse_. Grant always gets a pinched look about him when she uses it, and right now it wouldn't be anywhere near as amusing as it usually is. "And calling him out of bed at seven on his day off to do my job for me is likely to cause a setback."

"Tell him to get over it," Grant suggests. "Rank has its privileges."

"Mm, I don't think so," she says. "If I'm any judge of Gregson's character, telling him that rank has its privileges will result in him correcting me to say that _sleeping_ with rank has its privileges. Likely he will do so loudly and publicly."

"Let him," he says, carelessly. "I'll feed him to the zombies."

She laughs, although she's not entirely certain he's joking. Some things about Grant haven't changed, but some things _have_. He's harder, now—grimmer—and less likely to let an insult pass unremarked, whether it's against himself or against her. Grant from before never would have had a man horribly killed solely for the sake of an insult, but this one just might.

It's an adjustment, but it's only to be expected. They were apart for so long, and the world is different now—Jemma knows she's changed, too. That doesn't mean she's all right with the idea of a man being fed to zombies on her account, but…this isn't the time to address that.

So she changes the subject. "I presume you intend for us to spend the entire day locked away, then?"

"That's what I was planning on, yeah," he says. His tone is casual, but she can feel his thigh tense beneath her head. "Problem?"

Technically there are several problems, starting and ending with the fact that they both have numerous responsibilities that they can't afford to neglect for a whole day. But she spent two years thinking Grant was dead, and she's not willing to make him suffer for the sake of their responsibilities.

Jemma has changed, too. Her priorities have shifted.

"Not a problem," she assures him, and finally sits up. She drapes herself deliberately against him, maintaining as much contact as possible, and smiles into his shoulder as she feels him relax. "But I hope you've abused your rank to have food delivered, because I am _starving_."

The word is a conscious choice: she and Grant have spoken, some, of her time with her group, and she's told him of the shortage of food—the days when they had nothing, when it was too dangerous to hunt or gather and their scant rations had already run out. She knows it makes him angry—makes him hurt for her—that she spent days at a time surviving on nothing but carefully rationed water while he had rooms overflowing with food.

Angry and hurt on her behalf are better than the needless grief that's haunting him right now. It's an acceptable distraction.

As expected, he tenses briefly, then nods. "It's on the desk. Go ahead."

"You're not going to eat?" she asks without moving.

"Nah," he says, shrugging the shoulder she's not draped against. "Not really hungry."

It's not unexpected—she knows how nightmares can twist one's stomach into knots—but she hates to see him not eat. Intellectually, she knows he didn't suffer the same deprivation that she did, but her heart isn't concerned with what her head knows, and old habits are hard to break. She used to have to coax Carlos into eating, sometimes, when his good heart outweighed his good sense and he wanted to pass up food so the younger children could have more.

Luckily, coaxing Grant into eating is much, much easier.

"I'll make you a deal," she says, digging her chin into his shoulder.

He sighs. "What kind of deal?"

"If you share breakfast with me," she says, "I'll let you join me in the shower."

"Oh, really?" he asks, low and amused. "You'll _let_ me?"

"Mm," she hums. "I'll let you do things to me."

He laughs, and the sound lightens her heart. They'll be okay, she knows. It won't be easy and it won't be soon, but—someday—they'll be just fine.

"Do we have a deal?" she prompts.

"How could I resist that?" he asks, voice still light with laughter. "We've got a deal."

"Excellent," she says.

And it is.


	3. mistress of death au: one week

A/N: azariastromsis asked: "the week following the mistress of death drabble."

The Mistress of Death drabble is chapter **25** of _a prompt response (is only polite)_. There is also a POV switch, which is chapter **3** of _a different point of view (see things my way)_. You may wish to read those first.

* * *

"You're being _ridiculous_," Jemma snaps, frustrated.

Death is unmoved. "You were kidnapped."

"A _week_ ago," she stresses. "And in that week, you have tripled the spells surrounding me, assigned two Angels to follow me constantly, and scared away _every single mortal_ who has come within _twenty feet_ of me!"

"What's your point?"

"My point is that you are being _ridiculous_," she says, throwing her hands up. "If you want to take a few extra precautions, that's fine and I appreciate it, but you need to calm down!"

"Do I?" he asks, low and dangerous, but not since the very first days of their courtship has he been able to cower her with that tone, and all it does is make her glare at him.

"Yes!" she exclaims. "Because I am _not_ going to spend the rest of my life with no one but you and your Angels for company!"

"You will if I say you will," he says flatly, and even knowing it's only his worry that's driving him to be so high-handed doesn't stop her from being enraged by it.

"I am _not_ one of your servants," she hisses. "I'm your—"

"My what?" he demands. "Not my _wife_, certainly."

No. She's not his wife. Nor even his fiancée, though he's certainly offered.

She's lost track of the number of proposals he's made. He has born her refusals with good grace and humored her half-hearted excuses, but that—as proven by his tone—doesn't mean he's happy about them.

Jemma looks away.

She's not his wife and she never will be. She decided on it decades ago—long before his first proposal, even. She loves him with all of her heart and always will, until the very end of her days, however near or far that might be, but she is resolved: she will never marry him.

And she can never tell him why, because he will never understand.

He's not human, is the thing. He looks it and sounds it and even sometimes acts like it, but he is very distinctly _not human_, and there are some things he will never understand—that he _can't_ understand. Her reasons for not marrying him fall squarely in that category.

Decades ago—before his first proposal, before her resolution not to marry him, before even her first kidnapping—the Old Gods angered Death by suggesting he was too attached to her. They have no dominion over him, of course—no one has dominion over Death, and someday the Old Gods, too, will fall beneath his power—but they feel they should, and so they criticized him.

She was intimidated, of course—who wouldn't be, in her position? To have the Old Gods not only know her but disapprove of her…well.

But Death was not impressed, by the criticism or her reaction to it. And if the Old Gods intimidated her, Death's reaction _terrified_ her. He was beyond enraged, his grip on his temper so loose that little sparks of Power danced along his skin, and every single one of her plants died the moment he set foot in her flat.

And when she suggested, tentatively, that perhaps the Old Gods were right—for their relationship had already lasted far longer than she expected—and it might be time to end things, if she was distracting him…

"No," he said, sharply. "It is _not_."

"But if the Old Gods—"

"The Old Gods are _nothing_," he snapped.

"Maybe to _you_," she said, and something in her tone must have caught his attention.

"Do you fear them?" he asked, abandoning his pacing to kneel before her where she sat on the couch. "You needn't."

"What?"

"I will make you a _goddess_," he swore, eyes unnaturally dark as he clutched her hands. "I will bring you before the circle of Old Gods and they will kneel before you and _beg_ for your mercy."

The offer itself was frightening enough—the Old Gods have not had true power for centuries, but their pride remains undiminished; they are not quick to beg _anything_—but not nearly so much as the touch of his hands.

His Power was still sparking, and with her hands clasped in his, she could _feel_ it. For the first time, she felt the true scope of him, the sheer enormity of his Being, and it was _terrifying_. It was like standing at the very lip of a ledge miles above the earth, staring down at nothing but empty air—like waiting to fall and knowing it would take both eternity and no time at all to hit the ground.

She couldn't breathe from the scale of it—from his Power and from his _age_, the eternal _weight_ to him—and something in her soul unfurled towards him even as her mind told her to run as fast as she could.

It was overwhelming and horrifying and ultimately scarring.

She had always known he wasn't human, of course—he, who courted her by bring _corpses_ for her to study, who called it _courting_ in the first place, who had not name but function—of course she _knew_ he wasn't human. But that was the first time she ever _understood_ it.

The experience seemed to take years, but could only have been a fraction of a second; he was still talking when she finally tore her awareness away from his Power and raised her eyes to meet his.

"They will be nothing to you," he promised. "For as long as you bear my blessing."

She believed him. That was frightening, too.

She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I don't need to be a goddess. I don't want that."

It seemed to surprise him.

"You're frightened," he murmured, frowning, eyes searching hers. "What is it?"

Seeing the honest confusion in him was both reassuring and deeply worrying. He had no concept of what she had just experienced—what she finally understood about him. And she realized, looking into his eyes—lightened to their usual gorgeous hue—that he could never comprehend it.

He wasn't human. He never had been. He knew nothing of life without Power.

He could never conceive of how deeply terrifying it was to her. He, who offered it without thought, who promised it to her as a form of revenge—he could never understand.

She knew then that she couldn't keep him forever, as part of her so dearly wanted to. The Power he offered her so freely wasn't meant for the likes of her, but it would be too easy to accept it.

She swore to herself that very day that she would let him go. Not yet—not right away—because she loved him too much and couldn't bear the thought of leaving him, no matter what offer she made in the face of the Old Gods' disapproval—but someday.

Someday, she's going to have to let him go. And she can't let him go if she's married to him. When it comes to a Being of his status, _forever_ takes on a very literal meaning. If she marries him, they will be married for eternity.

Marrying Death means accepting his Power, and that is the one thing she cannot do.


	4. one night stand pregnancy: one year

A/N: athenakyle and cinnamonfa requested "the one night stand causes pregnancy au, one year later/after the baby is born"

The one night stand causes pregnancy drabble is chapter **6** of _a prompt response (is only polite)_. There is also a POV shift, which is chapter **5** of _a different point of view (see things my way)_.

* * *

Jemma's not really surprised when Grant lets himself into her apartment at two in the morning. She's been expecting him all week, after all—which is half the reason she's been staying up so late every night.

The other half, of course, is the reason he's here.

He must be tired; it takes him until he's nearly halfway across the living room to notice her sitting on the couch. When he does, he freezes.

"Uh, hey," he says, uncomfortably. "I wasn't expecting you to be up, still."

"Which, I presume, is why you picked the lock and entered my home without permission instead of knocking?" she asks dryly, setting her laptop aside.

"Yeah," he says, with a little laugh. "Sorry."

They have an easy détente regarding Sofia. Grant's work with Interpol keeps him away most of the time, so Jemma has full custody. And, in recognition of the fact that he doesn't control his own schedule, she's allowed him free visitation. He can come and go as he pleases; she just generally expects him to knock, first.

"It's fine," she assures him, and stands. "I appreciate your courtesy."

He shrugs it off. "How is she?"

"Also fine," she says, and motions for him to lead the way down the hallway to the nursery. "The worst of it's over, I think. She's just a little—"

She's interrupted by a sudden wailing, and she sighs.

"—cranky," she finishes helplessly. "She hasn't slept a whole night through all week."

"I'm sorry," Grant winces. "I got here as soon as I could. There was this thing in Hungary and I—"

"Grant," she interrupts. "Stop apologizing. We've talked about this."

"Right," he says. "Sorry. Thank you." He scrubs his hands over his face, and she swallows back a comment about how exhausted he looks. "Um, do you mind if I…?"

"Yes, of course," she says. "Go ahead."

He enters the nursery and crosses quickly to the crib, where he picks Sofia up at once. Jemma stands in the doorway to watch for a moment as he cradles their daughter against his chest, swaying gently back and forth and murmuring to her.

The sight causes an odd pang, as it always does, and she shakes it off with an impatient sigh at herself. Then, secure in the knowledge that her daughter is in good hands, she leaves them to it and heads for bed.

She has no regrets.

They're friendly, she and Grant. Perhaps they're even friends. It's nothing like she would have imagined, had someone told her two years ago that she would have a child with Grant Ward, but it's not nearly as bad as she feared it would be when she first realized she was pregnant.

They get along nicely, and Grant loves their daughter just as dearly as she does. What more could she ask?

Nothing at all.


	5. I did a pregnancy test: five months

A/N:anonymous asked: "pregnancy test drabble. several months later. (I think you know what I want to read, lol.)"

The "I did a pregnancy test" drabble is chapter **39** of _a prompt response (is only polite)_. You may want to read that first.

* * *

By the time Jemma and Henri (her guard of the week) return to the manor house from which their team operates, she's ready for a nap. It's more than slightly frustrating, how easily she tires these days—even had she not been barred from the lab for her own safety (or, to be more precise, the safety of the fetus she's currently carrying), she wouldn't be capable of getting any real work done anyway. It's not even noon yet, she's done nothing today but visit the obstetrician, and yet she can barely keep her eyes open as Henri helps her out of the car.

"You going to make it?" he asks her. "Or would you like me to carry you?"

"Fetch Bas to carry me, more like," she grouses around a yawn. "I hardly think you could bear my weight."

"Oh, I'd bear more than that, if you but gave me the chance," he teases. He opens the door for her with a bow. "Milady."

"Flirting with a pregnant woman," sighs Masika, who happens to be passing through the kitchen as they enter. "You have no shame, Henri."

"How can I help myself?" he asks, tone playfully mournful. "See how she glows—what man could resist?"

"Plenty of them," Jemma says fondly. Henri has been flirting with her (though always respectfully so) since the moment she arrived, and has done wonders for her on the days on which her perpetually unbalanced emotions swing towards self-consciousness. "But I do believe my glow is running out. I'm for bed, then."

"You made it, what? Four whole hours?" Masika teases. "Well done, Jem."

"Shut it, you," she returns without heat. "You slept until three yesterday! _I _am creating new life—what's your excuse?"

"Laziness," Masika admits shamelessly. Then she sobers, but only slightly. "Do you need help to your room, or will that get us the pregnant-not-invalid lecture again?"

"I do not need help, thank you," she says calmly, as Henri snickers. "However, if you'd be so kind as to track Raquel down and tell her that my appointment went well and everything is fine, that would be lovely."

Raquel is the team's medic, and is more than a little offended that Jemma has decided to seek outside assistance in the matter of her pregnancy. That Raquel has absolutely no training or experience in obstetrics makes no difference, apparently, and she insists on a full report after every one of Jemma's check-ups.

"We'll take care of it," Henri promises. "Enjoy your nap."

"I will," she says, around yet another yawn. "See you at lunch."

Her room is, for obvious reasons, on the ground floor. It's somewhat unfortunately positioned, being right next to the conference room (where things do tend to get loud), but it's the only downstairs bedroom, and a bit of noise is better than having to deal with the stairs every time she wants a lie-down.

"You are so much trouble," she murmurs, rubbing a hand along the swell of her stomach.

There are so many things she didn't consider when she first decided to go through with her pregnancy. She knew there would be difficulties, of course—hormonal imbalance, the emotional and physical toll pregnancy takes on a woman's body, the life-long emotional, physical, and _financial_ commitment she was making, and the…father issue were all things she took into account. She wasn't quite prepared for the sheer _inconvenience_ of the whole process, though.

And she must admit, she rather underestimated just how _much_ of a toll it would take.

Still, she doesn't regret it. She smiles to herself a bit as she thinks of the brightly decorated nursery next to her room and the ever-growing pile of _gifts for the baby _in the east store room. She's eight months along now, and she finds she's more excited than nervous. In a matter of weeks…

She's drawn out of her thoughts by the sound of something breaking in the study as she passes it. She pauses, frowning at the closed door. Generally, only Piotr makes use of the study when there are no missions to plan, and he's not the clumsy sort.

"Piotr?" she asks, knocking on the door. "Is everything all right?"

There's no response.

She hesitates for a moment—the door must be closed for a reason—but her concern outweighs her respect for Piotr's privacy, so she opens the door and enters the study. The source of the noise she heard is immediately obvious, as the lamp which usually sits on the table by the window is currently on the floor in pieces, but there's no sign of Piotr.

She moves further into the room, thinking perhaps he's in the alcove behind the bookcase (which isn't visible from the door), but it's as empty as the desk. Actually, she sees, the desk isn't precisely empty. There's a mug sitting next to an open laptop, and she can see steam rising from it. He might not be here now, but he's been here very recently.

"Piotr?"

Something feels wrong. She can't put her finger on it, exactly, but…there's something wrong.

She decides to go back to the kitchen and fetch Henri and Masika. She'll feel foolish if Piotr has merely stepped out, but it's a risk she's willing to take.

Before she can leave, however, the door swings shut behind her, and she whirls to face it. Her blood promptly turns to ice in her veins.

"Well," Ward says, his eyes fixed firmly on her stomach. "Isn't this a surprise."

Without looking away, he reaches behind himself and locks the door.

"I—you—"

"Me," he agrees, and raises his eyes to meet hers. She can't read his face at all. "Funny. All those times Coulson rubbed my face in you leaving…he never mentioned _this_." He smiles tightly. "Guess it must have slipped his mind."

Her heart is racing, and she fists her hands, trying to disguise the tremor in them. She knew, as soon as Coulson contacted her to tell her that he had escaped, that there was a possibility Ward might come looking for her. But she didn't expect it to be this soon.

It's only been four days. How did he find her already?

He takes a step forward, and she backs away as quickly as she can. It is, admittedly, not very, but Ward makes no move to stop her. He just stands there and watches with a frown.

"Do you think I'm gonna hurt you?" he asks, and he sounds honestly hurt.

"You already have," she reminds him—though not nearly as sharply as she'd like.

"Jemma," he says. "You have to know I didn't have a choice. Dropping that pod was your best chance of survival."

"You nearly killed us," she whispers. She grasps desperately for the anger she always feels when she thinks of that day—of what he did—but it fizzles out in the face of her fear. "As it is, Fitz…"

"I know," he says. "I know." His eyes go back to her stomach, and she wraps an arm around it protectively. She can barely breathe under his stare.

She never meant for him to know.

"Is it…" A muscle ticks in his jaw as he clenches it. "Is it mine?"

She hesitates. She doesn't know which is better—the truth or a lie? Which is more dangerous for the unborn child she carries? It depends, of course, on how much of their marriage was real. It's still a matter of great debate amongst the original team—how much of the emotion Ward professed to feel for her was sincere? How much of it was simply his cover?

If she claims to be carrying another man's child, what response will it evoke? Relief?

Or jealousy? Anger?

She doesn't know. She was so certain, before, that their marriage was nothing more than a lie. But the way he's looking at her…

He's a master manipulator. She can't trust what she sees or hears from him. There's no way to know what's genuine and what's not.

"Jemma," he says flatly. "Is it mine?" He narrows his eyes as she continues to hesitate. "Don't make me ask again."

He makes a pointed gesture with the gun he's holding at his side, and she swallows.

"Yes," she admits. She has to force the word out; it's barely more than a whisper. "She's yours."

"She?" he asks, and the emotion in his voice makes her flinch. "It's a girl?"

Her voice fails her. All she can do is nod.

He takes another step towards her, and she backs away further—all the way into the desk, which rattles as she bumps into it. The sound reminds her of what drew her into the room in the first place, and she gathers her courage.

"What did you do to Piotr?"

His brow furrows for a moment, then his expression clears.

"He's in there," he says, jerking a thumb in the direction of the closet. Reading her expression, he smiles a bit. "Alive. I thought he would make a useful hostage, but…"

"But?" she echoes.

"Well, my plans have to change," he muses, tapping his gun against his thigh. "I'm gonna be a father, after all."

Hearing him apply that word to himself sparks her anger much more successfully. "You are _not_."

"No?" he asks, raising his eyebrows. "You just said—"

"You made a biological contribution to her conception," she snaps. "That doesn't make you her father. You will _never_ be her father."

"Jemma," he sighs. "Look, you have every reason to be angry with me—"

"Damn right I do," she mutters.

"But you have to know how sorry I am," he continues, ignoring her. "Everything I did…it was orders. That's all."

She scrambles to put the desk between them as he moves closer, and he stops half-way across the room.

"Jemma…"

"You think _sorry_ makes a difference?" she demands, incensed by the impatience in his tone. "After all of the people you hurt—all of the people you _killed_—you think words mean anything?" She shakes her head, disbelieving. "You spent _years_ lying to me. Even if an apology _were_ enough to fix things…how could you possibly expect me to believe a single word you say?"

He sighs. "You're right."

"I—what?" She stares at him.

"You're right," he repeats. He pointedly holds his gun up, then tucks it into the waistband of his jeans. "And this—coming here, threatening you—it doesn't make it any better, either."

"No," she agrees slowly. She has no idea where this is going. "It doesn't."

"I'm gonna make this right, Jemma," he promises, and the earnest expression on his face is, somehow, more frightening than the earlier menace. "I'm gonna fix everything."

"I…"

"Words are meaningless," he says. "I'm going to _show_ you that I mean what I say."

Somehow, it sounds more like a threat than a promise.

"How?" she asks.

"You'll see," he says, and smiles unsettlingly. "You just worry about our daughter. I'll take care of the rest."

Hearing him say that—_our daughter_—scares the fight right out of her. All she can do is stand there, clutching the desk chair for support, as he unlocks the door and disappears into the corridor.

She's still standing there when Henri and Bas burst into the room minutes later, ICERs at the ready.

"Jemma," Bas says, hurrying across the room to take her arm. "Come on, we need to go. We've got a perimeter br—Jemma?"

She claps a hand to her mouth, but it barely stifles her sobs. She should tell them what happened—that Ward was here, that poor Piotr is most likely tied up in the closet, that their security has been more than just breached…

But all she can manage is, "He knows."


	6. They want to hurt me!: one week

A/N: darkangelcryo asked: "one week after the "They want to hurt me" evil Jemma fic"

The "They want to hurt me" drabble is chapter **61** of _a prompt response (is only polite)_. You may want to read that first.

* * *

Coulson and the others are furious with Jemma, but they are not unkind. She is given three meals and one book every day, provided with medical treatment for those few injuries which require it, and—despite the threats made against her when she was captured—she is neither tortured nor killed.

She's bored out of her mind, of course, but she hasn't been harmed.

It's certainly more than HYDRA would offer in their place, as well she knows, and so she keeps her complaints of boredom to herself.

On the morning of her eighth day in SHIELD custody, however, the pattern of monotony is broken in a very welcome way.

She's just finishing her breakfast when the door at the top of the stairs opens, and she glances up, expecting Coulson, who's been down every morning to question her. It's a beyond pleasant surprise when Grant enters instead, and she hurriedly sets her plate aside and stands.

"Good morning, darling," she greets him cheerfully as he reaches the bottom of the stairs. "Did you sleep well?"

He falters slightly at the question, but seems to steel himself—it's adorable—and approaches her cell. Instead of sitting in the chair, however, he braces himself against the back of it, hands curled tightly around the back of the seat.

He doesn't bother with pleasantries. "Coulson said you've been refusing to answer his questions."

"Coulson needs to learn that there's a difference between a lie and an answer he doesn't like," she says. "I've been nothing but honest with him. If he doesn't like what I have to say, it's no fault of mine." She inches slightly closer to the barrier, watching his face. "Sit down for a spell, Grant. Stay a while. Maybe _you'll_ like my answers better."

His hands flex on the back of the chair, and she notes—with pleasure—that he's still wearing his ring.

"Why would you be honest?" he asks. "What are you expecting to get out of betraying HYDRA?"

She sighs, wondering if they're _ever_ going to stop asking this question; she's answered it a dozen times already.

"I have no reason _not_ to be honest," she says.

"It won't get you out of here," he counters. "You have to know that."

"I do," she agrees. "But neither will lying. There's no point in being dishonest simply for dishonesty's sake. And thus, I am not lying."

"And HYDRA?" he asks.

She shrugs. "I have no particular loyalty to HYDRA. Working for HYDRA offered me opportunities for research that SHIELD denied. That's all."

"So you sold us out for science," he says.

She tilts her head, considering, and decides she likes that phrasing. "Yes."

"Great," he says, and scoffs. "You know, I think that actually makes it worse."

"Does it?" she asks.

"Yeah, it does," he says. He pins her with a look so full of emotion that she takes a step forward before she can stop herself. She longs to reach for him—to offer comfort—but knows it's pointless. Even were the barrier not in her way, he wouldn't accept comfort from her. Not now. "Are you even loyal to _anything_? Do you even know what it _means_?"

"I," she hesitates, then steps back. "I don't think you want me to answer that."

"Try me," he invites.

She searches his face—but only for a moment. Then she has to look away.

He expects her to say no. He can't conceive of the idea that anything about her was genuine. She understands, of course, and it's only to be expected…but it's still painful. Suddenly, she can't bear the thought of him misunderstanding this.

"I'm loyal to Fitz," she says quietly, and sees Grant flinch from the corner of her eye. "Does that surprise you? He's my best friend."

"You almost got him _killed_," he snaps, and she turns to face him again.

"I saved his life," she corrects. "You think HYDRA would have been kind to him? You think his genius would have saved him the treatment Coulson got from Centipede? It wouldn't have."

Grant says nothing.

"When I first," she begins, then hesitates and starts again. "After we left the Academy, I was asked to do an assessment of Fitz—to evaluate him as a potential candidate for turning."

"And you found out he wasn't suited for it," he says, with such certainty that she hates to disappoint him.

But she does it anyway. "Actually, he was. But I…" She looks down at her hands, adjusts the gauze around her left wrist. "I lied. I told HYDRA he was unsuitable. I called it a waste of effort and said that HYDRA would be better served by leaving Fitz in ignorance to serve SHIELD."

"Why would you do that?" Grant asks skeptically. He doesn't believe her.

"It's imprecise to say that Fitz is a good candidate for turning," she says, and presses her lips together for a moment. She remembers the moment she realized—the decision she made—and how shaky felt for weeks after, terrified that her report would be questioned. "It would be more accurate to say that he _could_ be a good candidate. But in—for that—they would—"

"They would have to break him first," he completes, quietly, as she stammers.

"Yes," she says. She takes a deep breath, struggling for composure. "I couldn't let that happen to Fitz. So I lied." Under Grant's dubious stare, she lifts her chin. "HYDRA never questioned me. I've been the only agent to maintain prolonged contact with him; they had no reason to doubt my report. However, had he been captured, they undoubtedly would have realized my lie. He would have been broken and turned in short order."

Grant is silent. Her cell feels cold suddenly, and she wraps her arms around herself.

"They would have tortured him," she says. "My partner. My best friend. I'm sorry to have hurt him, but I don't regret it. If I hadn't given Coulson reason to pull Fitz off of that mission…" She exhales slowly. "HYDRA would've given him much worse than a minor gunshot wound."

He scoffs. "So you shot him. I'd hate to see what you'd do to someone you're _not_ loyal to." Then he smiles tightly. "Oh, wait. I already have."

"No, you haven't," she tells him.

His brow furrows.

"Fitz isn't the only one who holds my loyalty," she says, and watches him still. "You have it, as well."

He blanks his face, but not before she catches a glimpse of the expression on it, and her eyes well with sympathetic tears. She looks away to give them both a moment to compose themselves.

"Try again," he says eventually, without emotion. "We already know I was an assignment."

"At first," she agrees. "But you didn't stay that way."

"You really expect me to believe that?"

"We were together for seven _years_, Grant," she reminds him gently. "_No one_ could spend seven years with you and not fall in love." His jaw ticks, and she knows she's hurt him. But it's important that he understand, so she continues, softly, "I didn't even last seven months."

"I don't believe you," he says flatly. She can tell he's shaken, however, and she aches for him.

He thinks so little of himself, her husband. Some of the fault is hers—the truth of her allegiance, such as it was, obviously caused no little damage. But most of it isn't. Most of the blame lies with the awful people who raised him, who hurt him when they should have loved him and allowed his brother free reign to do even worse.

She doesn't have many regrets, but not taking the opportunity to eliminate the rest of the Wards while she had it certainly qualifies.

"Believe what you want," she says. "But I fell in love with you long ago." She closes the last of the distance to the barrier, standing just far enough to keep it from activating. "I meant every word of the vows I swore to you, Grant. I always will. Being locked in this cell doesn't change that."

"I—"

"You want to know why I've been honest?" she asks. "Why I've answered all of Coulson's questions truthfully and completely?" She doesn't wait for a response. "Because of _you_."

Grant pulls back as though he's been struck.

"I know you're still fighting HYDRA," she continues, searching his eyes—hoping, with all her might, that he'll believe her. It won't make a difference in how he feels about her, she knows; she's lost his good opinion, if not his love, and she might never get it back. But she hopes it will change how he feels about _himself_, if he'll only accept that she truly does love him. "And I know you're being reckless, because you always are. The more information you have, the less danger you're in."

He's shaking his head slowly in wordless denial, and she keeps talking, her tone rising with her urgency.

"I don't care about SHIELD," she says. "Or HYDRA or the government or _whichever_ enemy you're fighting today. I care about _you_. I _love_ you. I want you to survive this—this _grudge match_ Coulson is waging against the world, and the best way to ensure that is to make sure you know as much as possible about what you're facing."

"That's _enough_," he snaps, and his voice breaks on it. He scrubs a hand over his mouth and turns away, repeating quietly, "That's enough."

She's hurt him. It was inevitable, really. But she hopes he'll at least think about what she's said. She can't bear the thought of him going through life thinking that _everything_ was a lie—that she didn't love him every bit as much as he loved her.

She can't bear the thought of him going through life hating himself.

"Someone will be down for your tray later," he says evenly, without turning to face her.

"All right," she says softly. "Thank you."

He turns and heads for the stairs without responding, and she bites back the urge to call out to him. She doesn't want him to leave, to return to the base above where she can't see him—can't talk to him. But there's nothing she can do to stop him. Perhaps that's for the best.

She's hurt him enough for one day.


	7. under your spell, chapter two: one week

A/N: sapphireglyphs asked: [one week later] you've already got me (under your spell) chapter 2 - "so don't pay no mind." please! :D

This takes place after chapter **two** of _you've already got me (under your spell)_. You may want to read that first. (NB: reading chapter one is unnecessary.)

* * *

Once Coulson dismisses the very brief (and very distressing) briefing, Jemma goes looking for Grant.

It doesn't take her long to find him; as expected, he's in the munitions closet, going through the lockers and obviously considering his options. He falters briefly in checking the sight on a pistol when she opens the door, then resumes his search without looking at her.

"Come to tell me to take care of Fitz?" he asks, tone unreadable.

"Amongst other things," she agrees placidly, and watches him wince.

It's been a week since her jump from the Bus, from his confession on the raft that he doesn't hate her and their agreement to try starting over, and things are—for the most part—going well. There are times when they both slip back into aggression and derision, but that's only to be expected, really. Eight years of bad habits are _not_ going to be rewritten overnight.

"Although you might be better off watching your own back over his," she suggests as brightly as she can manage. Which is to say—considering the circumstances—not very. "He's still unhappy with you, you know."

"Yeah," he says, smiling wryly. "I kind of picked up on that."

Dear Fitz—he's always so quick to hold a grudge on her behalf, and once he does, he doesn't let it go easily. It will take more than a daring last-minute rescue to convince Fitz that Grant is worth even a second of her time.

But she doesn't want to think of Fitz right now. She doesn't want to think of the danger he's about to walk into—danger about which she knows precisely _nothing_. Coulson's briefing was so vague as to be entirely useless, and all she really knows is that Grant and Fitz are about to venture behind enemy lines _alone_ and _unsupported_. Overnight.

She knows how to send Fitz off, and she's already prepared his sandwich for him. But she doesn't know what to do or say for Grant, how to express her worry and hope for his safe return without getting weepy about it.

Whatever he and Fitz are going to do, it's obvious they'll be in serious danger. There's a not-insignificant chance that they could be injured—or even killed.

She doesn't want this second chance with Grant stolen away when it's barely even started.

She's silent for too long, and he finally turns away from his guns to face her properly.

"Hey," he says, gently. "I'll take care of Fitz, Jemma."

"And yourself," she instructs, and is somewhat mortified by the way her voice wavers. "You have to take care of _yourself_, too. I won't be there to patch you up and Fitz is _horrible_ with blood."

"Noted," he says, and frowns a little. He sets his bag aside and rounds the table to take her by the shoulders, his frown deepening as he studies her face. "What is it?"

"What is it?" she echoes, incredulous. "You're about to walk into enemy territory with no one but my half-trained partner to watch your back! Does there need to be something more?"

"I've spent our whole marriage on these kinds of ops," he reminds her, and she sighs.

"I know. It's just—"

"You've never worried about me before," he concludes, letting go of her shoulders like he's been stung.

She laughs before she can stop herself. "Oh, no. I worried. Reluctantly and completely against my will, granted, but I've certainly worried about you before."

"Then what is it?" he asks, and she thinks he looks a little pleased. She has to marvel at it—how hurt he was by the distance between them, even though it was entirely his fault. "Jemma?"

"I've never had to say goodbye to you before," she admits quietly.

"Oh."

It's one of the worst parts of this whole business, really. She's used to him disappearing, to simply waking up to find him gone, his bedroom cleared out and bed neatly made. She's not used to waving him off.

It's one thing to _know_ that he's walking into danger, and an entirely different thing to _see_ it.

"So let's not say goodbye," he says, and she looks up at him, startled. "Let me promise you that I'm gonna bring Fitz _and_ myself back, and you can promise to keep Skye out of trouble while we're gone, and we'll call it even, okay?"

He sounds so certain and so serious, the way he does when he gives orders in the field, and it makes her smile, despite herself.

"Okay," she agrees. "I promise to keep Skye out of trouble."

"And I promise to bring us back," he says, with a little smile of his own. It fades as his watch beeps. "That's my cue. Even?"

"Even," she confirms, and he's kind enough to ignore the emotion in her voice.

He grabs his bag off the table and slings it over his shoulder, then hesitates, searching her face. Before she can say anything—not that she has any clue what to say—an odd resolve settles over his expression. He cups her shoulders again and presses a soft kiss to her forehead.

"I'll bring us back," he says again, quietly intense.

Then he gently moves her away from the doorway and walks out, leaving Jemma standing alone in the munitions closet.


	8. Waking up in Vegas AU: one week

A/N: safelycapricious asked: "one week after waking up in vegas! (one!)"

The "waking up in Vegas" drabble is chapter **4** of _a prompt response (is only polite)_. You may want to read that first. (NB: it also kicks off the _a lot like forever_ series, but no knowledge of the series is required to understand this drabble.)

* * *

"Are you sure about this, Simmons?"

"Not at all," Jemma admits cheerfully as she tapes the last cardboard box shut. "We've known each other for a week, half of which was spent on opposite sides of an ocean, and so far it seems that the only thing we have in common—aside from working for SHIELD in two _very_ different capacities—is a fondness for action films." She carries the box over to the door and drops it on top of the others, then wipes the sweat off her forehead. "I've estimated a fifty-three percent chance that this will all end in tears."

"Then why are you _doing_ it?" Fitz demands, incredulous.

She shrugs, busying herself with straightening the stack of boxes as an excuse not to look at him—to see the expression she knows he's wearing, the half-judgmental, half-anxious face he's been aiming at her since the moment she followed up the (apparently hilarious) news of _I married a stranger in Las Vegas_ with the statement _we've decided to give it a shot_.

"Jemma," he says flatly, and she sighs.

"I don't _know_, Fitz," she says helplessly. "Because there's a forty-seven percent chance that it _won't_? Because—because _something_ must have convinced me that it was a good idea to marry him, and I want to find out what?" She turns to face him, and—sure enough—he's wearing that face again. "Because I _like_ him, Fitz. We've only known each other for a week and we've nothing in common, but something about him is just…"

"Fine," Fitz says, grudgingly, when she trails off. "Go ahead and move in with a strange specialist you know nothing about. I can't stop you. But don't expect me to comfort you when it all goes down in flames, because I won't."

"Oh, Fitz," she says, and plops down onto the couch next to him to kiss his cheek. "Yes, you will."

"Yes, I will," he admits glumly.

He wraps his arm around her as she drops her head to rest on his shoulder, and they take in her flat-stripped to the very bare bones-in silence. This is her last day here. Tomorrow, she's moving into on-base quarters which she'll be sharing with Grant for...well, for as long as their marriage lasts.

It might only last another week, and if that's how it goes, fine. But it might last _forever_, and how can she just give up on that possibility without even trying?

It's crazy and impulsive and ridiculously out of character, but...this time-just this once-Jemma is willing to leap without looking. She'll just have to hope her new husband is the type to catch her, should she fall.


	9. Single Parents AU: three months

A/N: aflamingosanicelookingbird asked: "single parents au 3 months later"

(The single parents AU is chapter **8** of _a prompt response (is only polite)_. Said AU also kicks off the _wild hearts_ series, but you don't need to read that to understand this.)

* * *

They're taking things slow.

Jemma isn't the first woman Grant's dated since becoming McKenna's father, but she _is_ the first other parent he's dated. They've both got kids to worry about—kids that are best friends, no less—and neither one of them wants to rush into things and risk hurting the girls.

Three months in, they've developed a comfortable routine. After he confessed that their first breakfast made him late to work, they got in the habit of meeting up for breakfast _before_ dropping the girls off, rather than after. Not every day, of course, but usually once or twice a week they'll have breakfast at McDonald's or Burger King or something—somewhere with a play area where the girls can have fun while Grant and Jemma talk.

On this particular Friday, Jemma's face turns abruptly serious as soon as the girls have disappeared into the ball pit, and Grant gets a sinking feeling.

"So," she says, fiddling with her straw. "I've mentioned Fitz to you before, yes?"

"Uh, yeah," he says, thrown. That's…not what he was expecting her to say. "Your old partner, right? The one who stayed in London?"

"That's right," she confirms. "He's going to be in town for a symposium next week, and he'd like to spend some time with Lydia, and…well…"

"Well?" he prompts. He has no idea where this is going.

Jemma shakes her head a little with an impatient smile (aimed more at herself than him, he thinks).

"I was thinking that perhaps you could let Antoine watch McKenna, as he's been asking," she says, meeting his eyes solidly. "And we could…have a night in."

He opens his mouth to say _absolutely not_—the last time he let Trip watch Kenny, she came home talking about the Patriots and bearing a new lifelong dream (that only lasted about three days, luckily) to go skydiving—but then his brain catches up with him.

"Really?" he asks, trying not to sound too eager. He feels a little ridiculous (seriously, what is it about this woman that turns him into a teenager?), but—to be fair—they've been taking things _really slowly_ and he is, after all, only human.

"Really," she confirms, smiling.

"Then, yeah," he says, and clears his throat. "Sounds good."

"Excellent," Jemma says brightly, and promptly changes the subject.

Needless to say, Grant doesn't have much luck concentrating on _anything_ for the rest of the morning.


End file.
